after the cold comes warmth
by kuramasros
Summary: A quiet practice by himself, in his own pace, is what he needs right now, he decides. His head hurts too much for him to deal with Victor's cheerfulness so early in the morning. He ignores the voice at the back of his mind telling him that he should at least make himself some tea to drink, and instead walks back to his room to rummage through his bag for some aspirin.


Yuri sighs.

He's been tossing and turning in his bed for the past four hours, trying to get to sleep, and now he has less than two hours before he has to be up and get ready for practice. It'd started yesterday morning—the feeling of having something stuck in his throat— and had only worsened until his throat would hurt each time he swallowed—the sure symptom of a cold. Something he _doesn't_ have time for right now.

Yuri shakes his head and moans quietly—silently admonishing himself for the foolish decision. His headache had also worsened to something akin to a migraine, it seems. Yuri doesn't know the difference between the two but then again he'd been blessed with having good health for the most part of his life and _this_ is something he isn't used to.

He throws the sweat-soaked covers off of him and gets up, wincing as his feet touch the cold wooden floor. He tiptoes his way to the hallway and walks the rest of the way to the bathroom as quietly as possible—Yuri almost scoffs at the thought but he doesn't want his headache to get any more intense than it already is— before coming to a stop at the mirror. He stares at himself. His eyes are bloodshot and his skin is pale—paler than it usually is. All in all, he looks like shit and he's pretty sure that Katsudon will want to know what's wrong as soon as he sets eyes on him—and he'll probably regard him with kind eyes and a patient smile on his face while doing it because he's stupid enough to worry about his competition.

Yuri lets out another sigh. A cold during the off-season is one thing because then he can just sleep it off and make up for lost time on his own but now… Now is his chance to prove himself; to Victor, to the other Yuri and to the rest of the figure skating world that he's someone to look out for—a force to be reckoned with, as his moniker, 'The Russian Punk', seems to imply.

A quiet practice by himself, in his own pace, is what he needs right now, he decides. His head hurts too much for him to deal with Victor's cheerfulness so early in the morning. He ignores the voice at the back of his mind telling him that he should at least make himself some tea to drink, and instead walks back to his room to rummage through his stuff for some aspirin.

Two hurriedly swallowed aspirins and a change of clothes later, sees Yuri at the rink, tying the laces to his skates. The pain has, thankfully, abated to a dull throbbing and he feels marginally better. He stands up and winces at the dizzying nausea that accompanies the movement. Damn. He really shouldn't have taken those pills on an empty stomach. There's not much he can do about that now though, he thinks, as he makes his way to the ice.

He begins his warm-up carefully; choosing to roll his shoulders first to ease their tension, and then stretch for a few minutes. After finishing this, he takes his blade guards off and skates to the middle of the rink. He closes his eyes and tries to envision the music. Agape, as it's called. He thinks of his grandfather—of his pirozkhis that never fail to cheer him up even on his worst days. His grandfather who's always been there for him. His agape. Slowly, he feels his body going through the motions of his choreography and then he's readying himself for a jump, a triple axel, and—

He falls.

The jarring impact of the hard ice against his head makes him cry out. Thankfully, nobody's there to see him pick himself up gingerly from the ice and make his way to the benches. Everything hurts; his knees, his hands and, most of all, his head. He realises he's shivering when he bends down to pick up his blade guards and the movement makes his nausea even worse and he feels the bile inching its way up and he's pretty sure he's going to vomit, right here—

"Yurio!"

He turns around. There, steadily making their way to him, he sees Victor and Yuuri. They come to a stop right in front of him, and he's still bent down to retrieve his blade guards from the floor when he's suddenly overcome with exhaustion. He straightens up and sits down on the bench and waits for them to start nagging at him. Instead, a warm hand touches his forehead and he's met with the worried eyes of Yuuri.

"Yurio, I think you're coming down with a fever," He says and glances at Victor.

"How long have you been practicing for?" Victor asks sternly, his blue eyes gazing at him with concern.

"I don't know. Half an hour? An hour? Something like that."

"Mari says she saw you leave without stepping a foot inside the kitchen," Yuuri says, as he crouches down on his knees. "Have you had anything to eat yet?"

Yuri contemplates lying to him. It's not like his wellbeing matters to a lot of people, aside from his grandfather and his coach, Yakov, who only wants him in his top form. Telling these two that his head feels like it's going to explode and that his stomach is churning something awfully isn't going to change anything. He feels his lips moving, to form the lie, when his pain-addled mind seems to think better of it and he slowly shakes his head instead.

"Right, then," Victor says, and picks up his bag. "Let's go back and make sure you have something to eat. Practice is cancelled for today."

Yuri startles at that. "Huh?" He spits out, glaring at him, "Why are you going to cancel practice for my sake, you old geezer?! Nobody asked you to do that!"

Victor only smiles at him patiently. "Yurio, I know you don't have the best opinion of me but since I'm coaching the two of you right now, you'll have to adhere to my rules. And one of them is that practice is cancelled if any of us falls ill."

Yuri knows that tone of voice. Arguing with Victor when he's decided on something is like trying to convince Yakov to let him practice more quads—in other words it's more trouble than it's worth. Especially now that his headache is causing him to feel lightheaded as he begins taking his skates off. He can feel Yuuri and Victor's eyes on him as he's doing it and can't be bothered to tell them to stop staring at him. He moves to get up and feels himself sway slightly but, to his relief, an arm wraps around his shoulders and steadies him.

"Come on, then, Yurio," Yuuri says softly, seemingly mindful of his headache. "Mum's made some soup for you."

Later, when he's encased in fluffy, warm blankets, and his stomach is full of soup and honeyed milk, does he smiles a little to himself. He might have underestimated the lengths these two would go for him. He can't remember the last time he's been taken care of like this.

A faint memory of his grandfather laying a cold towel on his feverish forehead comes to him. He must have been around nine or ten then— around the time he'd asked Victor to choreograph a program for him. His grandfather had picked him up from school and prepared a warm bath for him. He remembers being helped into his pyjamas and given some milk to drink. His grandfather had then stood vigil at his bedside; reciting stories from his youth. Yuri had gone to sleep that day with a smile on his face.

The door creaks as it's opened, disrupting him from his reminiscing. He can feel the presence of Yuuri and Victor in the room, and he turns his head towards them to mumble a "thank you". He feels a hand gently run through his hair and someone place a kiss on his forehead before sleep claims him at last.


End file.
